


Write it on a piece of paper, honey (put it in my coat before I go)

by Gorgeousgreymatter



Series: Always Female Stiles 'verse: I will run you like a thread [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Always Female Stiles Stilinski, Biting, Bruises, But like the softest dom, Cis Female Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale Takes Care of Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Devotion, Dirty Talk, Dom Derek Hale, Evolved Derek Hale, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Good Alpha Derek Hale, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Making Love, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Mild Breathplay, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Derek Hale, Protective Derek Hale, Rough Sex, Spanking, Stiles Stilinski Takes Care Of Derek Hale, but he tries, finally lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24835606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeousgreymatter/pseuds/Gorgeousgreymatter
Summary: And what the hell does that mean, he thinks, lying awake in his bed, with the familiar weight of Stiles's head resting on his chest, her long, long legs tangled up with his, her bony elbows digging into his side, if he lets go of just a little bit of that anger, a little bit of that guilt? It's been his anchor for so long, the only thing that's kept him chained to the earth when all it did before she came along was reel, uneven, beneath his feet.On nights like these, when the flooding starts and he can't stop it, he does one of two things: he takes Stiles apart and buries himself in her, fucks her until neither one of them can think anymore about anything, let alone bad dreams or bad memories. Or, he runs.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Always Female Stiles 'verse: I will run you like a thread [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719364
Comments: 9
Kudos: 286





	Write it on a piece of paper, honey (put it in my coat before I go)

**Author's Note:**

> There's a spanking scene and a very gentle "punishment," but like the softest, gentlest BDSM scene with the most amount of feelings because I'm me lol
> 
> Thank you for supporting this series c:
> 
> Title from Lay It On Me by Vance Joy (I remembered to include the title info this time, so yay me!)

Write it on a piece of paper, honey (put it in my coat before I go)

For a long time, after, Derek remembers _hating_ Laura. He'd hated that she came back here. Back to the one place they both swore they'd never come back to. He'd hated that she went, even when he'd begged and pleaded with her not to. He'd hated that he would always know the exact moment she died, when he felt the bond between them get cleaved in half. Felt the exact moment her last shuddering breath left her body as he stared into the broken mirror in the shitty bathroom in the even shittier apartment they had shared for the last six years.

Derek remembers now, how within a day he'd felt overcome with it, a pull, a little like someone had shoved a hook straight into his chest and yanked on the lead. It had been a maddening feeling, had made him feel like his body was as ill-fitting as clothes that were too small. And he had sworn that when it got quiet, he could actually hear his mother’s voice, Laura’s too, whispering in his ear to leave, to go back. _To go home_.

He had only made it a week alone in the city before the feeling became so overwhelming that he couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't focus, could barely even control his shift. So he'd gone, gone and found his sister dead, and in pieces. It almost hadn't seemed real that Laura, who'd been so full of life, warm where Derek was always cold, had just been lying there, all motionless and gone, on the same scorched floorboards that Derek could still remember being whole if he shut his eyes and let himself remember..

They'd tried to outrun it, but in the end, she was just one more dead Hale in Beacon Hills.

Derek remembers how he could smell her still, on his clothes, soaked into his skin, faint yet achingly familiar. All it had done was fan the fire of rage that sat low and hot in his belly, made him grip the shovel so tight as he buried her that the skin of his fingertips just kept tearing and healing, over and over, until his hands were soaked and stained with blood and sweat.

Most of all, he remembers hating her for leaving him here, all alone.

Derek doesn't dream anymore, hasn't for a long time. Not like Stiles does. The ghosts of his family don't haunt him like that anymore. Instead, it's the hours at night when he's staring at his ceiling, awake and willing himself to sleep, and it's almost like he can hear them, smell them again, if only somehow his body could catch up with his mind instead of always just being a little bit out of reach, dulled by years of distance and the persistent trying to forget.

He used to be able to control it, keep those little bits of his past from slipping out, drip, drip, drip, from drowning him completely. Used to be, the armor was enough – if he kept himself angry, if he hated anyone or anything enough, just let it fill him, he could keep that door locked and shut tight. But Stiles had been a surprising and, at the time, unwelcome complication. A crack in his walls he hadn't anticipated.

Derek can still remember when he saw her for the first time. He'd been expecting a cop, maybe a wayward search and rescuer, or some idiot dog-owner searching for a lost pet, but the girl standing in front of him couldn't have been older than sixteen. And he remembered exactly how she'd smelled, like junk food and cherry chapstick, that chemical bite he knows now was adderall, all tied up together in that I-just-finished-masturbating, sex-tinged stench that had been so shockingly obscene at the time that it'd made him blush, and that wolfish growl stir, unbidden, in his chest. And christ, she'd looked like prey – all wide, bright eyes too big for her face, and smooth, pale skin wrapped around lanky limbs still shouldering the weight of teenage awkwardness. Like a deer begging to be chased, because she'd acted like prey, too, Derek had thought (with something he'd failed to recognize in the moment as _appreciation),_ with the way that she'd thrown her hands up in supplication and backed away, how she wouldn't quite meet his eyes or turn her back to him.

It had crept up on him, the wanting, mostly since it had been years since he'd felt anything close. Until suddenly it hit him like a fucking car crash, like a switch flipped inside him, because he never thought he could want something so badly that he could actually physically feel it, that yearning, that ache – like her name had been carved into his bones and into his flesh as if she'd done it with a knife. And he'd really tried to resist, done everything he could to keep her at arms length because Derek thought he knew for certain back then that he didn't deserve anything close to happy, to content. That he didn't deserve her.

Derek just hadn't anticipated that she'd want him that badly, too. And Stiles was stubborn and a little spoiled, used to getting what she wanted. So, he never really had a chance, and it had happened anyway, like they were inevitable, predestined. Derek's not sure he ever believed in fate, but it had felt a lot like that in the end.

So Derek can't find it in himself to hate Laura anymore, not really. If she hadn't come here, if he hadn't been drawn back to this place, kicking and screaming, following the specter of his dead sister, he would have never found Stiles. Or rather, Stiles would have never found him. Would he still be there, he wonders, rotting in that sublet in New York and still wishing more than anything that he could just shut his eyes and not wake up, be done with it? And what the hell does that mean, he thinks, lying awake in his bed, with the familiar weight of Stiles's head resting on his chest, her long, long legs tangled up with his, her bony elbows digging into his side, if he lets go of just a little bit of that anger, a little bit of that guilt? It's been his anchor for so long, the only thing that's kept him chained to the earth when all it did before she came along was reel, uneven, beneath his feet.

On nights like these, when the flooding starts and he can't stop it, he does one of two things: he takes Stiles apart and buries himself in her, fucks her until neither one of them can think anymore about anything, let alone bad dreams or bad memories. Or, he runs. Stiles is fast asleep – all slow, even breathes and soft little snuffles that she'd deny, deny, deny were ever snores if he ever thought to call her on it. He could be selfish, he thinks, and wake her up with his mouth, his hands, his cock (she's generally not picky which one, and if she had her way, it'd probably be all three). But she'd worked late trying to help her father look through case files, and they'd gone to bed late too. He worries enough that she's giving him too much, that he's taking more than she has to offer without giving enough back. Of course, if he told her any of that, Stiles would look at him in that way she does, shake her head, and call him an idiot, so it's just one of those secret fears he keeps to himself.

So Derek goes with option two, crawling out of their shared bed and thanking the supernatural grace he was born with that he doesn't wake her when he slips out of her grasp. She lets out a noise, a quiet little sniffle as she burrows into the sheets, sprawling out almost instantly to fill up the empty space he's leaving behind. It makes no sense, he thinks, how someone so slight, with bones that seemed as hollow and breakable as a fucking bird, could take up so much room. But _it's Stiles,_ so maybe it does make sense. Because Derek never thought he had room left in his boarded-up heart for anyone, let alone her, but she'd kicked down that door, forced her way in and made the space anyway.

He scrawls a note telling her where he's going and not to worry, because he's not going to break that promise he made (“ _Don't leave me again.”),_ and kisses her softly on the forehead. The streets are empty and there's only the near-silent purr of the camaro and his scattered breathing to accompany him out to the preserve. He never turns the radio on when he's alone, because somehow, no matter how much he tries to tune it out, the static wheedles it's way into his brain and he always ends up nursing a headache, one that doesn't heal because it's not physical pain, not really. Another so-called “geriatric habit” Stiles enjoys teasing him about.

When he reaches the preserve, shucks his shirt and his pants by the car, he can already feel the relief rolling over him the same way the shift does. With a curse and a shudder, he lets it overtake him, and he's on four legs running until he's lost beyond the treeline. For a long time he just follows the perimeter of his territory, letting instinct lead him, but eventually he ends up in the same place he always does. As long as he and Stiles stay here, he isn't sure there will ever be a time where he doesn't.

If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can remember, at least a little bit. In his memories, it's still standing, and whole—the wooden steps aren't burnt or rotted through, the windows aren't broken, the siding isn't scorched or crushed all to hell. The door is painted that same light green color that he and Laura used to say reminded them of puke. It used to drive his mother crazy. If he tries hard enough, it even smells the same, he thinks, of the incense his mother used to burn, sandalwood and amber, and the sweet, mellow scent of the cedar floorboards, the zinnias and foxglove and creeper vines that grew wild in the front yard no matter how much his father tried to tame them.

When he reaches the crumbling front porch, he shivers, feeling his shoulder-blades shift back into place and his ribs bend and crack until he's standing upright again. Going up the busted up steps, he remembers it wasn't that long ago when Laura had to to hold him back that night, screaming and crying in his ear not to go inside because she couldn't lose him too. He had clawed at her so furiously that he'd broken out of her grasp and run up the steps, burned his hand straight to the bone trying to wrench open the door, the brass knob all melted and disfigured from the heat of the blaze. He remembers how the smoke had burnt his eyes, practically blinded him, how he'd crumpled to the ground and the sound that had been wrenched out of him was like no sound he'd ever heard come out of his own mouth.

But most of all, he wishes Stiles could have met them, that she could have seen it when everything in his life for a brief, brief moment was good and whole. But she can't, she never will, and what was the point of wishing when all he had left to offer were ghosts, anyway?

…

It's still a number of hours before dawn when Stiles stirs, letting out an annoyed groan and flopping onto her stomach, trying to burrow deeper into the mattress. Before she even opens her eyes, she notices two things right away that even in her sleep-heavy, confused state she recognizes as strange. For one thing, _she's cold,_ which has happened exactly never in the history of sharing a bed with Derek. The next thing she notices is there's something crinkly pressed underneath her cheek, which she realizes, blinking dumbly as her eyes adjust to the light, is paper. Stiles _hates_ waking up alone, so she can't help the bolt of panic that seizes her almost immediately, but apparently the paper is a note that gives a reason for both those things.

Derek's got freakishly good handwriting, so only he would leave a note that looks like fucking calligraphy just to tell her that he's gone for a run and that she shouldn't worry, because he's fine. Back soon.

“What an asshole,” she says out loud to nobody, because did he honestly think that she wasn't going to worry, or not going to have questions? Because people who are _fine_ don't sneak out of their apartments at two in the morning without telling their fiance, Derek, she thinks, irritably.

“You must think I'm a fucking idiot,” she mutters to herself, dressing hurriedly and grabbing her keys. It's not like she doesn't know exactly where he's going to be. Of course, if Derek wasn't such a weird, old-man-luddite who refused to carry a phone, she could just call him like a normal person. Emphasis on normal (and person, actually, if she thinks about it, because Derek is technically neither). But instead, now she's here at the preserve in the middle of the night, inadequately dressed and really pissed off. As she walks toward the trees, she sees his clothes on the hood of the camaro, so she hastily pulls on the sweatshirt. Derek'll need the pants when he presumably unshifts and she gets to kick him in his very human-like shin. _Hard._

The path to the Hale house should be familiar, but that's usually during the day, and she's normally accompanied by at least one werewolf, so she kind of got used to _not_ being afraid of the scary, dark woods. And Stiles will never ever, _ever_ admit this out loud to Derek, but she kind-of-sort-of used to be very scared of the dark as a child, but she grew out of it, okay. Mostly. Wasn't much of an issue when your fiance's eyes glowed like a freaking night light. It also occurs to her that normally the woods are pretty quiet, probably because anything with even a modicum of instinct probably stayed far, far away when the wolves were around. Especially Derek. But Derek isn't here right now, and Stiles is definitely has the very unsettling sensation of eyes on her, eyes that don't feel anything like her wolf.

It's kind of sad, actually, that her first reaction when she sees that mountain lion finally creep out from the dense thicket of trees right in front of her, isn't even fear. It's surprise, because she'd forgotten, for all the time she's spent running from werewolves and other supernatural spookys in these woods, that _actual_ wild animals still lived in here, too. For awhile, she just stares at the thing, and it stares back with its hungry, yellow eyes, daring her to move. Stiles might not know that much about wilderness survival (girl scouts had been a huge and unsurprising bust, much to her father's chagrin), but she knows enough from being around Derek that running is the exact opposite of what she should do.

She starts to back away, slowly. Stiles should probably yell or something, too, but her vocal chords feel frozen and her throat is dry as a bone, so she's not sure she could even scream if she wanted to. None of it matters anyway, because backing away slowly becomes tripping on a rock, falling flat on her face, and skinning her knee. Because of course it does. She can hear the low, continuous growl getting closer, and really it's almost funny that it still kind of sounds like an angry house cat, even though it's about as far from a house cat as Derek is from a Labrador. “If I get killed by a giant cat, I'm going to be so pissed,” Stiles whispers, squeezing her eyes shut and curling up into a ball because she's pretty sure playing dead is a thing, right? _Right_?

Thank god she doesn't have to find out, though. Because she feels the ground rumbling a little underneath her, the thud of giant paws, and a very familiar roar that vibrates strong enough to shake the trees. When she dares to open her eyes a little, she could cry in relief because Derek is right in front of her, baring his incredibly sharp and scary teeth and snarling savagely. She doesn't see the big cat stalk away, but she hears it yowling as it disappears into the underbrush.

_Man, Stiles really, really isn't a cat person._

She's still shaking a little when she manages to scramble upright, making a disgusted face as she watches as Derek's spine ripples and contorts until he's bipedal again. She doesn't think she'll ever get used to that, she thinks, shuddering. Derek rushes to her side, but he's got his grumpy stern face on, which, _fair_ , but she wouldn't have been here in the first place if he wasn't such a shithead.

“ _What is wrong with you?”_ Derek asks, pinching that bridge of his nose the way he does when he's really, really annoyed with her, but offering her his hand so she can get to her feet. “Is it possible for you to _not_ almost die every time you leave the house?”

Stiles scowls and ignores him. “Come closer so I can kick you,” she growls, examining her scuffed up knee that's definitely starting to bleed just a little. Derek's head tilts in that lost puppy way, and she rolls her eyes. “I wouldn't even have been out here if you hadn't disappeared in the middle of the night to go brood mysteriously or whatever.”

“I wasn't brooding,” Derek says darkly, grabbing her by the waist and setting her on her feet anyway, before crouching down to examine her injured knee.

“He said broodily,” Stiles retorts, glaring at him. Her leg does hurt though, so even though she wants to be annoyed when he licks at the wound and draws out the sting,she's too tired to argue with him, sighing in relief when her knee goes all numb and tingly.

“I left you a note that said _exactly_ what I was doing. I said I was fine. I thought even you'd be able to follow simple directions.”

“People who are fine don't need to point it out in a note, Derek. And just because you leave me a written memo before sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night that tells me not to worry doesn't mean _I'm not going to worry.”_

“I couldn't sleep and I didn't want to disturb you. Running helps me think.”

“You couldn't think at home?” Stiles asks exasperatedly. “And that's kind of one of the benefits of this whole engaged to be married thing,” she says, gesturing between them. “You kinda have the legal right to disturb me whenever you want.”

Derek looks confused, and Stiles almost feels a little sorry for him, because he probably really, literally doesn't get it. Before her, she's not sure who the last person even was that Derek thought would care where he was or what he was doing. It's still kind of new to him, and that thought always kind of breaks her heart a little.

He's quiet for a while, like he's trying to figure out what to say, and Stiles knows better to press him when she sees that vulnerable, puzzled expression on his face. When he finally looks up at her, his brow is furrowed and he's frowning a little bit like he's in pain when he finally starts to talk.

“You know how we go to the cemetery sometimes, so you can talk to your mom?”

Stiles blinks at him for a long time before nodding slowly. It's a new thing, her trusting him with that, but after the disastrous couple of days around her mother's death-iversary, letting him in was so much easier than trying to keep him out. Derek never expected her to talk, just sat there with her quietly if she wanted him to, or held her hand. It was nice sometimes, actually, to not be so alone in her grief. Plus, she guesses, in its own macabre way, it's the closest thing she's ever going to get to introducing her mother to her future husband.

“I don't have that,” Derek says softly. “I don't have anywhere else to go.”

She's not expecting it, that answer, and it makes her chest hurt for him like someone is crushing her lungs. Because she's read the file, seen the autopsy results, even took a cursory glance at the photos and regretted it immediately (and maybe might have vomited just a little). There was hardly anything left of them to bury, his family. Even if the Hales had some kind of mausoleum or grave marker, it's not like there was anything to put in it. The skeleton of that burnt out house is the closest thing he has to a memorial and if that doesn't explain a lot about Derek, about why he is the way he is, she's not sure what else can.

Stiles is certainly not going to say sorry, because she knows better than anyone that _sorry_ feels the same as pity, even if it's not meant that way. And neither one of them ever wants that. So she just throws herself forward into his chest and hugs him instead. Derek lets out an _oof_ but responds the way he always does, wrapping his arms around her to draw her somehow even closer.

“Just take me with you next time,” she mumbles. Stiles doesn't see him nod, but when he presses his lips to the top of her head, it feels like the same thing.

There's a beat where nobody moves and nobody speaks, until Stiles finally does, the words muffled against Derek's skin. “I'm still getting punished for the mountain lion thing, aren't I?”

“Oh yeah, definitely.”

Derek beats her back to the loft because Stiles lets him, because she doesn't need to give him any extra ammunition by getting a freaking speeding ticket or something. Her heart is already racing, from nerves, anticipation, and just good old-fashioned lust, because she knows Derek's going to be waiting for her. When she slides open the door, he's on the couch, sprawled out lazily, like he's been sitting there all night. His pupils look blown out even from where she's standing and she can literally feel the weight of them as they drag, achingly slow, down her body. She's shaking a little, fumbling as she tries to untie her shoes, and she's already out of breath like she's the one who went running, not him.

“Calm down,” Derek says, flashing her that boyish smirk that _really_ makes her crazy. “I haven't even done anything yet.” God, she wants to say she hates that, when he gets all alpha and self-satisfied like this, but she doesn't, at least not when he's doing it in that _sexy_ way. It's infuriatingly hot when he uses it to tease her. His lips are still curled upward when he speaks next, and her stomach feels like it practically flies up into her mouth, because finally, _it's happening_. “Come here. _”_

She obeys, because of course she does, and it's only a few tentative steps until she's in front of him. Automatically she starts to fall to her knees, but Derek stops her, shooting out a hand to steady her when she wobbles, caught off-balance by surprise. When she gazes up at him questioningly, he brushes careful fingers over her leg where she'd scraped herself. “It doesn't hurt anymore,” she whispers, and he looks at her in such a soft, tender sort of way that makes warmth spread across her chest because even when he's like this, he still worries about her, always.

Seemingly, the answer satisfies him, because there's a steely tone to his voice now, and his eyes flash red, boring straight into her when he gives her his next command: _“Clothes off.”_

She complies immediately, yanking his sweatshirt and her shirt up and over her head, and stepping out of her pajama shorts so fast that she knows it's not the least bit sexy because coordinated she _definitely_ is not. And she's not sure if he wants everything off, but she's learned it's better not to ask questions and to let him decide. If he wants her panties off, she has no problem believing he'll find a way, she thinks, mentally rolling her eyes (even she's not brazen enough to do it to his face right now). He doesn't touch her right away, probably because she already desperately wants him to, and he knows it. It's a sight to see though, those emerald green eyes of his darkening just from looking at _her,_ which is something she's not sure she'll ever get used to, his reaction to her – to her body, her touch, her scent. The seconds tick by and the urge to squirm under his gaze and the urge to please him by being still wage a time-honored battle inside her. Stiles wonders if she's always going to feel like this, like every time he looks at her, touches her, she might actually spontaneously combust. Ten years from now? Twenty? She literally can't imagine a time that she won't, that she wouldn't, because of him.

Why won't he touch her yet? Is this her punishment? It has to be, right? Because she's practically dying here. It feels like a hundred years have passed by the time Derek reaches for her, sliding a hand up the length of her thigh to settle at her hip. She moans already, just from that, and he laughs. Bastard, she opens her mouth to say, but doesn't get the chance, because Derek's grip tightens and then she's being moved, yelping as the world goes inverted and she finds herself face down in his lap. _Fuck_ , she knows what's going to happen now, and already she can't help the way heat snakes its way down her belly and into her core. She can't see his face, but she can practically feel his smugness from here when she bucks in his lap when his palm trails up the backs of her legs and then down the length of her spine to finally settle at the curve of her ass.

“Already so needy,” Derek hums, like he couldn't be more pleased by that fact. His fingers slip under the waistband of her panties and he squeezes the flesh there and Stiles just whimpers because what the fuck else can she do, her face pressed into his thigh, her hands wound around his knee just trying to anchor herself. God, she wants to beg already, and the word _please_ is running through her brain like fucking ticker tape. Why won't he just _do_ something?

He must smell how desperate she is because finally, _god finally,_ he's hooking his fingers into that little scrap of fabric, pulling it down achingly slow over her thighs and letting it fall to the floor. She's wet, she can feel it, and she just about has a heart attack when Derek's fingertips dip into her folds, just barely grazing, teasing.

“Calm down,” Derek murmurs again, “I've barely touched you.”

“ _So touch me.”_ The words spill out before she can stop them. Derek snarls, and then _smack_ , his palm strikes down hard on her bare ass and she cries out, the sound piercing through the hush that had fallen over the loft.

“I don't think you're in a position to be making demands, baby.”

She whines, and all it gets her is another sharp smack that sends her hips stuttering. The blush blooming on her face feels as hot as the stinging heat left behind from his palm. She's not sure if it's him that's done this to her, got her pleasure/pain sensors all crisscrossed, or if she's always been this way, just wired wrong from the beginning, but each slap only makes that burning ache in her build and build until she's panting against his thigh, her fingers and toes curling, and she's losing herself in it, so close already. He's getting hard from this, too; she can feel him pressed against her cheek and she can't help it, nuzzling against his crotch in an embarrassingly wanton display that, if she were more conscious outside of her pure, blistering need, would absolutely mortify her.

Derek groans though, cursing, and his nails drag over her scalp and wind in her hair, yanking back on it with a frustrated hiss. “You're not being a very good girl, Stiles.”

 _Screw good,_ Stiles thinks desperately, crying out as pain ripples across the top of her head, _she wants to come,_ and she might not say it out loud, but the way she grinds against his knee is probably clear enough. It's so good, the friction, even if it's not quite what she needs, she's pretty sure she can get there anyway, just from this, coupled with a few more forceful strikes from his hands.

“You could come now,” Derek says, eerily calm, considering she can hear his breathing getting faster, can feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest. “But if you do, that's all you get tonight.”

…

Stiles freezes in his lap almost immediately, and he can practically hear the gears in her brain turning, turning, weighing her choices. She whimpers again, digging her fingernails into his denim-clad knee, but her hips remain still, motionless. She must get it now, he thinks, that this isn't really her punishment. It wouldn't have been a very good one if it was, considering how much she loves it, how hot it gets her, when he does this. The last time he put her over his knee, she'd come without him even touching her, just from his palm spanking her ass and the friction from rutting up against his thigh. He would have come in his pants just from _hearing_ her, christ, but then she'd pulled his zipper down with her teeth and sucked him off so thoroughly that at the time, he'd been pretty sure he'd shot his entire brain out through his dick.

“Are you going to be good for me, now?”

“ _Yes,”_ she whispers, and then Stiles's breath hitches, like she's expecting another blow, but he's gentle now, rubbing her shoulder blades, playing in the curve of her spine, that pretty patch of skin on her lower back that gleams like the crescent moon.

“Good,” Derek says, and then he hauls her upright, swallowing her gasp of surprise with a deep and thorough kiss, biting at her bottom lip, already swollen from where she's been worrying at it. She mewls so sweetly when he finally pulls away to lick at her throat, but then she's rocking in his lap, presumably without meaning to. But Stiles flushes so prettily that he doesn't even reprimand her.

This time.

“Now,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Go wait for me on the bed.”

From the way her mouth twitches, a petulant little frown, it's not what she expected or wanted to hear. “For how long?”

Derek grins, a predatory gleam of teeth, before shrugging. “We'll see.”

Her eyes go wide and she tries and fails to stifle the whine that tears its way out of her throat. But still, she obeys, and slides off his lap on unsteady, coltish legs.

“Can I trust you to keep your hands to yourself, baby?” Derek asks. Stiles bites her lip in that way she does when she's thinking, hard, about her answer. It's not worth it to lie, and she knows that by now, he thinks, zeroing in on the thrumming beat of her pulse, pounding in her neck so hard he can see it right here from where he's sitting.

She shakes her head and looks embarrassed by the admission. “No...”

Because she's honest, he'll be merciful, he thinks, reaching for her hand and drawing her back to stand in the cage of his knees. “Do you want me to make it easier for you?”

Stiles shivers when he twines their fingers together, when he rubs the heel of her palm, all soft and delicate with his thumb, before letting it fall from his grasp. “ _Please,”_ she whispers, all fluttering lashes and darkening whiskey-brown eyes, searching and hopeful. Then she turns around and offers him her other hand, too. There's the clink of his belt buckle, and then he's looping faded leather around both her wrists, tying them behind her back – not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough that she can't release herself so easily. He leans down, kisses the tips of her fingers, before giving her one last playful slap on her ass that makes her jolt and squeal.

Derek doesn't move from where he's sitting, just listens to the sound of her bare feet padding down the hallway with clumsy, shaky steps. Stiles smells so good, so desperate for it, but he's still careful to pay attention to every beat of her heart, every change in her scent, because sometimes when she's needy like this, it triggers that fear in her of being left alone. And he never ever wants to do that to her, make her feel truly abandoned, make her panic. But all he hears is the same frenzied lust-driven rhythm of her heart, same as before when she was writhing on his lap, mixed with the sound of her knees knocking together a little as she arranges herself for him on the mattress.

And yeah, he's making her wait, but she's not the only one suffering. He's still painfully hard, because how could he not be? The sounds she'd made, the way she'd ground against him so needily, _christ_. So the first thing he does is head to the bathroom for a shower – _a fucking cold one_. The rush of water beating down on his back is a good distraction, but it doesn't quite dampen the sound of _her_. Because god, he can hear her even from in here, because he can _always_ hear her: her breathing, shallow pants coupled with the ever-alluring fluttering of her pulse. His fangs drop and he growls because can't believe he's about to lose control just from smelling her across the hall. _Fuck_.

By the time he gets out, dries off, and pulls on a clean pair of sweats, about twenty minutes have passed, and he's honestly the one who can't wait any longer without losing his goddamn mind. He makes no noise as he moves quietly through the hall and into the bedroom, all dark except for the moonlight streaming in through the open window, casting shadows over the bed. Stiles doesn't seem to have noticed him yet as he waits in the doorway, so he gets to just look at her, and god, there's a lot to appreciate.

She's facing away from him, and she may have started out upright on her knees, but now she's got her cheek pressed against the sheets, and she's sitting back on her heels, her hands still bound behind her and resting at the small of her back. He can see her fingers twitching, can hear the soft but frantic breaths that sound dangerously close to whimpers. To him, she's always so beautiful, but like this, all sprawled out and begging for it– she's fucking breathtaking.

Derek's across the room in an instant, and the first thing he does is slide his palm across the back of her neck, lets it drag down her spine, the touch soothing and gentle, and Stiles _sobs._ Derek has to shut his eyes and just breathe for a moment, calm himself before he loses it, because he can taste it, how much she needs it, _needs him_. “How's my girl?” he murmurs, all soft and sweet, before climbing onto the bed and settling on his knees behind her, sliding one arm around her middle to gently pull her upright and against his chest. She's trembling, but she lets her head fall back against him and sighs.

 _“Please?”_ is all she says, which isn't exactly an answer to his question, but he knows what she means when she asks it

“You were so good for me,” Derek whispers into her throat, pressing a kiss there like a promise. When she turns her head to look at him, he sees that she's been crying, just a little. When he cups her chin with his other hand, leans down to claim her mouth, he can taste it, the salt from her tears when he sucks at her tongue and nips at her lip.

“Can I?” she asks breathlessly against his jaw when he pulls away, and Derek says nothing, but smiles at her instead. The hand at her waist snakes down her body to where she's aching, and he uses his thumb to brush over her clit, swollen and pulsing for him already. Stiles moans, but it's strangled, a little choked, because then he thrusts two fingers inside her, and she thrashes in his grasp. She's so close already, he knows it's not going to take much to get her there. He twists his wrist until his fingertips brush that place, and she goes rigid, every muscle taut, waiting for the inevitable release.

He takes her earlobe between his teeth and sucks, before muttering those words he knows she desperately needs to hear him say.

…

“ _Go ahead, baby.”_

Stiles feels her entire body tense and then convulse, and it feels like she's coming harder than she ever has in her life. Even her toes are twitching uncontrollably, the same way her legs and her arms are. There was something about it, _the waiting_ , that made it so much more intense, so much better. It shouldn't make sense. Why she wants it – no, _needs it_ – like this sometimes. And more than that, she _loves_ it, love when he makes her beg, when she's on her knees for him, when he decides what she gets and when she gets it. It doesn't make sense, because by all rights, she should hate this. Every obstinate bone in her body should be recoiling at the thought, submitting to him, at obeying. Because she's no wolf, she doesn't have to play by those rules, and has never ever done so for anyone _but_ him. And maybe that's it. Maybe it's just Derek. Before him, she was always trying to be so many things for so many people, but they never quite felt like her. Until he came along, and all she ever had to be for him was herself.

“Come back to me,“ Derek murmurs, sweeping strands of sweat-soaked hair away from her face, and Stiles blinks dazedly, leaning into the touch and wondering just how long she'd been lost inside her head. That post-orgasm drunkenness is still working it's way sluggishly through her veins, and she knows she would be slumped over on the bed if he wasn't still holding her up. She can't bring herself to speak yet, but she makes a pleased sound not unlike a purr when Derek rubs his beard between her shoulder-blades, pressing his lips to the tips of the sharp bones there. The hand in her hair moves, and she's just aware enough to feel Derek reaching down to try to unbuckle the belt still looped around her wrists.

“ _Don't_ ,” she manages to croak, and Derek's hand stills, so she knows he's heard her.

He doesn't say anything, but turns her face gently to look at him, and even through half-lidded eyes she can tell he's got that little concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows, trying to read her.

“I – I want it like this,” she whispers. She doesn't know why she's nervous, considering everything they've done together, but her stomach still manages to twist itself into knots around him sometimes.

He's hard, she can feel him against her hip, so she wriggles against him, hissing a little as the still-sensitive skin from where he'd spanked her rubs against the fabric of his sweats. Derek stares at her, his eyes flickering green to red and then green again, and Stiles refuses to look away from him, even though she wants to, even though the nakedly hungry way he's watching her makes her blush. “I like it,” she offers quietly, still managing to sound somehow shy.

“Okay,” Derek murmurs against her jaw, “Whatever you want.” And the reverent way he brushes his fingertips over her palm makes her heart feel like it literally skips a beat. He doesn't say it out loud much, not like her, but she can always feel it, _I love you_ , in those tender little touches that make her weak in the knees. “ _Anything.”_

 _“Want you_ ,” she says, and she's trembling again. Derek growls and she feels the vibration catch in his chest before she even hears it, and then his cock is pressed right up against her, sliding through all that slick, and she rolls her hips back eagerly.

“You have me,” Derek says, and she guesses he thinks she's already waited long enough, because he spreads her open with one hand and thrusts inside her in one fluid motion. There's that tiny bit of hurt, just a half-second, and then she feels her body relax against his, her tight walls squeezing him like a clenched fist. God, it never gets old, that moment where it goes from too much to _not enough, never enough._

He groans into her back and curses, scraping his teeth against her spine. She hisses at the sting, but rocks her hips back fast, faster, chasing that heat that's already starting to coil inside her again.

“ _No_ ,” Derek grunts, and then he's got an iron grip on her hip, his other hand at her throat, so she goes stock still, whining softly. “ _Slow,”_ he says, before gripping her jaw and turning her head to kiss her filthily. The way his hips drag then, almost lazily against hers, mirrors the word, his intent.

After that, everything is hazy. She gives herself over to the rhythm he sets, languid and so achingly slow she's aware of every movement, the way he never quite pulls out, grinding against her in a way that hits her clit just there, just right, every time. It feels like she's drifting, letting Derek hold her up, trusting him to take care of her, to get her there.

And that's really what it comes down to. She trusts him, so much so that it should terrify her, and maybe it used to, but now it just _is_. A part of her the same way her insides are, that secret knowledge that she would do anything for him and all he would have to do is ask. That she'd lay on the ground and let him walk all over her body, if that's what he wanted. What he needed. It's such a small price to pay, and does it really cost a thing when she knows he'd do the same thing for her, without question?

“Where are you going, baby?” he hisses into her ear, and he punctuates the words by winding her hair in his fist and yanking it. “Be here, _with me_.”

“ _Just don't let me go,”_ she begs, and then Stiles bares her throat in a way she knows he can never resist, wailing softly when he sinks his teeth bruise-deep into the skin there.

“Never,” he whispers. And then she feels him as he laves at the broken skin with his tongue, and squeezes just tight enough around her throat when he pulls back and then plunges into her with one final snap of his hips, hard and sudden. It's enough to toss her right over that edge she's been circling and she comes with a harsh and piercing cry. A few more metered thrusts and he's not far behind her, and they both collapse into each other, a tangle of shaking limbs and gasping mouths.

Stiles is awake enough to register the clink of the belt buckle being released, the thud of Derek tossing it to the floor, but other than that, she only knows the weight of him draped over her back, of him murmuring praise into her skin.

She shuts her eyes and just lets herself feel it

– _safe_.


End file.
